


stockinged feet girls and lively jigs

by blushao (horizsan)



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, No Sexual Content, commoner!joy, if you'd like to listen to it while reading to enhance your experience feel free, princess!yeri, the song they're dancing to is soldier poet king by the oh hellos, this is just cute that's all there's not even a drop of angst none i promise, yeri!centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25094821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horizsan/pseuds/blushao
Summary: When she was younger, Yerim had never thought she could fall in love with a commoner, but in a jig square during the annual summer festival, she's proved wrong.Alternatively: I wanted to write Joyri, and I wanted to write a scene with two characters dancing to Soldier, Poet, King by The Oh Hellos, so here we are.
Relationships: Kim Yerim | Yeri/Park Sooyoung | Joy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25





	stockinged feet girls and lively jigs

**Author's Note:**

> hello!
> 
> this was originally intended to be a short drabble of just the dance scene, but i made it a bit longer because i just couldn't resist. i hope you enjoy reading!
> 
> warnings: none that i can think of, but if you find something that needs a content warning while you read, let me know in the comments and i'll update it here!
> 
> ~ abby

Yerim has always loved the way the capital city looks during the kingdom’s summer festival. It’s beautiful, splashed full with more color than Yerim thinks she’s ever seen before, or will ever see again, yet she’s always proved wrong the next summer, because every year the colors become brighter and more plentiful. She’s grateful her father allows her to join in on the festivities, albeit on the one condition that she must be well-disguised, which isn’t difficult considering intricate face paint is a key part of the celebration. This year, her facial features are disguised by sweeping strokes of paint in deep purples and sunny yellows, the wings of a butterfly shaping themselves to the curves of her cheekbones and curling around the ends of her eyebrows, the lines of the butterfly’s body hiding the shape of her nose. The year before that, it had been a ladybug, red body with the spots being yellow and blue instead of black. And the year before that, she’s pretty sure it was an ocean wave in shades of indigo with green and orange flecks for the foam, but her memory is a bit fuzzy.

She’s walking through the streets on her way to the pier, interlocked cobblestones under her feet warmly baked from the sun’s rays. Her long golden hair is held away from her face by a purple bandanna, the exact same color as the butterfly whose painted wings are spread wide across her face, save for two strands that peek out to frame her face. Every so often, she blows a harsh breath out of the side of her mouth to move the hairs away from her eyes. The skirt of her dress (a simple, plainly designed cream-colored garment that looks fit for a peasant girl, just the way her father ordered) falls halfway down her calves, just the right height for being able to dance without being considered scandalous for revealing too much skin. Her shoes are kitten-heeled, and ever so slightly uncomfortable, and Yerim knows if she does too much walking in them, she’ll end up with blisters on the balls of her feet and her heels. She’ll likely take them off soon, twirling into a group of dancers doing some sort of jig in a square, spinning and spinning, dirtying the white stockings on her feet without a care in the world, her bubbly giggles drifting through the air.  _ Yes _ , she decides,  _ that sounds like a perfect way to spend my time today _ .

Yerim scurries through the crowds of people that flood the street, people naturally parting to let her pass the way a wave parts to flow around a rock. She makes seemingly haphazard and random turns down side streets and ducks through small alleyways between buildings, but Yerim knows exactly where she’s going. She knows exactly where the jig squares are, and the one she’s fast approaching is her personal favorite, and no, before you ask, it’s definitely  _ not _ because of the pretty commoner girl she’s seen there in previous years. No, it’s  _ totally _ because of the band that plays, because their cellist is supremely talented, because he has a way with that bow and those taut strings.

Yerim bursts into the square, the walls of the buildings that form the shape bathed in vibrant, perfectly saturated pinks, greens, yellows, and blues, in wildly placed splattered forms. On one wall, the word  _ joy _ is painted in green on a backdrop of messily applied yellow and blue, in big loopy letters that remind Yerim of the way she used to write cursive as a child, before her tutors conditioned her to write her cursive less loopy and more sharp, less big and more small, less wide and more condensed. They said it was more mature-looking that way, but Yerim just thought it was harder to read that way, and she’d always liked this big loopy style much more. Sometimes, she still writes that way, just out of spite. Only sometimes, though, only when she feels up to having to rewrite her whole letter all over again because the handwriting isn’t acceptable.

She scans the people who pack the square, looking for that pretty girl; the one whose soul Yerim just knows is woven from flowers and sealed with the sweetest honey known to mankind, the one with the beautiful silky dark hair that tumbles in perfect loose waves over her shoulders, the one with the wide dazzlingly bright smile and the eyes that sparkle with a light brighter than any star Yerim’s ever seen, the one whose beauty is just so radiant no sane person could ever force themselves to gravitate away from her.

Yerim’s gaze zeroes in, and there she is, in the center of the circle, guiding everyone else in the steps to a fast-paced little dance that most of them already know. Her fingers are gently wrapped around a child’s wrist, a little boy who looks to be no older than six, and she spins him around like one of those toys Yerim can’t remember the name of that seem to be very popular among the children here. A top, maybe? Yerim stands on her tiptoes to see over the people blocking her view and notices that the girl’s shoes are abandoned who knows where, and she’s kicking and spinning with a wide smile on her face, her feet and the lower half of her legs covered by nothing but a pair of thin white stockings that are fraying in places, on the verge of tearing and revealing the skin beneath them. There’s a sunflower painted across the curves of her face, and Yerim thinks she must have been the one who painted  _ joy _ on the wall, because the way the paint strokes on her forehead and cheeks curve is hauntingly similar to the way the letters loop around themselves. It’s so fitting, suits her perfectly, both the flower and the word  _ joy _ . Yerim has never actually spoken to this girl before, but a blind man could see the rays of sunshine that emanate from her smile, and the almost tangible joy that pours from her shining eyes.

Yerim stands off to the side, doing nothing but watching as the song plays and the dancing goes on, slowly toeing her shoes off as the song comes to a close. As the next song starts up, Yeri slides into the circle, and the people on either side of her part like water to let her in. The girl continues to lead everyone in the dance, Yerim carefully watching the way her legs and feet move so that she can copy the steps. She recognizes the song, as it’s a popular one among her people, one that everyone knows the lyrics to, one that’s often sung in the streets no matter what time of day or year it is, and she already knows certain parts of the dance simply by muscle memory from her childhood, kicking her feet in perfect timing with the music. At the lyric, “He will tear your city down, o lei o lai o lord,” Yerim looks up from where her eyes are fixed on the girl’s stockinged feet, and their gazes meet for a split second before Yerim glances away, her cheeks blooming in shades of pink around the edges of her butterfly’s strokes. Yerim catches the girl smiling out of the corner of her eye, teeth perfectly straight and perfectly white (but not blinding), and her blush only deepens.

As the circle sings along to the line, “There will come a poet whose weapon is his word,” Yerim feels slender fingers delicately wrap around her wrist, and gently tug her into the center of the circle. Her eyes widen in shock, as she looks up to meet the girl’s eyes again, and she carefully tries to tug her wrist from the sunflower girl’s grip, but her efforts are fruitless. Her grip is gentle, yet firm, firm enough that Yerim will be unable to force her wrist free without making a scene. The people in the circle cheer Yerim and the leading girl on as they continue the dance, Yerim only continuing to follow the steps because she doesn’t really have much other choice. She stares into the other girl’s deep brown eyes, hoping her emotion will be conveyed through her intense gaze, just barely shaking her head in subtle refusal.

The girl lifts Yerim’s arm up above her head and spins her gracefully, ducking her head towards Yerim’s ear as she does so to whisper, “And why ever not? You’re good at this, I’ve been watching you dance for the whole song so far, you haven’t put a single step out of place.”

The girl lets go of Yerim’s wrist, linking their arms together at the elbows instead for a series of synchronized kicks that Yerim vividly remembers learning as a child. Yerim whispers back, “I don’t particularly like being the center of attention.”

They spin around in a perfect circle, arms still linked and delivering pointed kicks to match every beat. “Well, why’s that? You’re so beautiful, so radiant, it seems a girl like you would love being in the spotlight.”

Yerim blushes further, which she didn’t think was possible, and bashfully replies, “Well, thank you for the compliment, you’re very beautiful as well, but no, I don’t particularly enjoy it when people pay me too much attention. It places expectations on my shoulders that I’m sure I can’t meet.”

The girl spins Yerim again, and they unlink their arms to dance in circles around one another, kicking their feet out so that their ankles almost brush against each other, but come just shy of touching. The sunflower girl smiles again, smaller and less obvious this time, and takes Yerim’s hand in hers once more for another series of spins. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name? A pretty girl like you must have such a beautiful name to match.”

Yerim almost tells her the fake name her father always insists that she use if civilians ask her name, Katy, but what comes out of her mouth instead is, “It’s Yerim.”

“Ah, exactly as I would have thought. An angelic name to match an ethereal girl.”

In a sudden burst of confidence, Yerim asks, “And what about you? Such a vibrant, free-spirited girl must have a name to match.”

The sunflower girl smiles again, and replies, “It’s Joy. Not nearly as show-stopping as yours, but I think it’s got a nice ring to it.”

Yeri’s lips stretch slightly into a little smile of their own, and she almost forgets the steps when her brain gets distracted a bit too much by Joy’s...well, everything, it’s all very distracting, from her eyes to her smile to the way her long dark hair bounces and lands perfectly with each step of the jig. “Well, I think it suits you very well. Joy. It matches you perfectly. I obviously don’t know you, but you seem to have a soul just bursting with joy, overflowing with it, from what is plainly seen by the naked eye.”

Joy flashes another one of those smiles at her again without saying anything in response, and Yerim honestly thinks she just might faint if this song doesn’t end soon. Thankfully, the song comes to a close within the next few seconds, and Yerim bites back a sigh of relief, slowly letting go of Joy’s hand and returning to where her shoes lay on the ground to put them back on. Yerim’s tutors always told her it was impossible to fall in love within a month, let alone the duration of a song, but she thinks she’s just proved them wrong. 

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this! feel free to leave a comment, it would make my day <3


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